


silt

by mitzvahmelting



Series: hoe kelly [5]
Category: Baseball RPF
Genre: 2019 Season, Depression, Hurt/Comfort, Loneliness, Los Angeles Dodgers, M/M, amorphous undefined sexual relationships, friends who have sex, touch comfort
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-01
Updated: 2019-07-01
Packaged: 2020-05-31 14:18:17
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,572
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19427680
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mitzvahmelting/pseuds/mitzvahmelting
Summary: On 6/22/2019, Joe Kelly pitches a clean top of the 11th before the Dodgers walk off in the bottom of the inning. Joe takes the W. He should probably be more proud of it than he is.





	silt

So the rookie gets the walk-off win, which is somewhat of a relief, for two reasons.

One—it means Joe doesn’t have to pitch the 12th inning. Like, maybe the skipper wouldn’t have trusted Joe in the 12th anyway, maybe he had another guy lined up to take that inning and it would have been a non-issue. But Joe saw the cogs turning in Dave’s head—Joe had looked good out there, or good  _ enough _ , and he knew Dave had been thinking about squeezing another three outs out of him. Joe would have been up for it, of course, but God, lately it feels like a miracle every time he scrapes together a clean inning, and lightning doesn’t strike twice, you know?

Two—the rookie walk-off takes some of the attention off Joe. Not that there was a whole lot of attention, but there definitely was  _ some  _ when he first came back into the dugout; guys patting him on the shoulder, or patting him on the ass and saying  _ attaboy.  _ It’s the kind of thing that sends irritation jolting up Joe’s spine, to be congratulated for not fucking up. It dredges up from the depths of his self-esteem this combination of disgust and guilt like silt murking up the bottom of a lake, making him feel woozy and discontent.

“You did good,” says Kershaw with a smile.

Joe freezes in place. He’d thought the clubhouse was empty—he’d just spent an hour in the video room specifically  _ waiting _ for the clubhouse to empty. But now Kersh is here, congratulating him on a job well done.

He feels the irritation— _ pff, yeah, I did good in the end, good in the score, good in the win, sure, but good? A four pitch walk to Reynolds where I literally chucked a ball over his head—yeah, good. Sure. _

But he doesn’t say any of that out loud. 

When they met during spring training, Kersh had promised he’d do everything in his power to make Joe feel welcome on this team. And every day since, Joe tip-toes around his relationship with Kersh like it’s a ten million dollar porcelain vase he’s terrified of shattering. Joe  _ needs  _ Kershaw, needs someone he can orbit when he can’t build up a gravitational bearing of his own. Kersh is currently part of the foundation of Joe’s hierarchy of needs, and Joe isn’t gonna say or do anything even remotely stupid in front of him for fear of risking that.

So when Kersh congratulates him on doing good, Joe mutters “Thanks,” which makes Kersh smile more, and things are stable. “I was just, uh, studying.” Joe gestures vaguely in the direction of the video room.

“Good,” says Kersh. He’s a big man, leaning against the locker bank with his arms crossed in front of his chest like a cool person, looking poised. “Good to review what went well, but don’t overthink it—”

“I know,” Joe interrupts—he says it automatically, to shut down the conversation, and then he regrets it because he shouldn’t speak to Kersh with that tone, so he says “Sorry,” and he pulls off his sweatshirt and dumps it atop his sneakers at the bottom of his locker bay. “Do you need anything?”

“Well, you did good,” says Kersh, smiling in a way that makes Joe feel like there’s a joke he’s missing.

“Thanks,” Joe repeats, mildly.

Kersh peels himself off the wall and steps in behind Joe’s back, taking hold of Joe’s biceps - and the touch makes Joe’s whole body tense, because he didn’t expect it, and he doesn’t know what’s happening here.

They fucked, back in spring training, because David fucking Price had taken it upon himself to  _ call Clayton Kershaw on the phone and inform him _ of every one of Joe’s sexual complexes before the ink was even dry on Joe’s contract.

And he knows—Joe knows it was done with the best of intentions. To protect him, to make sure there was someone on the team who would protect him. Sure, it was a boundary violation, and Joe is still pissed-the-fuck-off about it, but… but. 

It helped. Despite it all, that stupid and paternalistic thing David Price did… helped.

“I wanted to give you a  _ reward, _ ” Kersh says, just behind Joe’s ear. 

He doesn’t sound seductive or anything, but kind of goofy and teasing and brotherly. It’s just his hands on Joe’s body that belie his intent. Ah. A  _ reward _ . “What, for doing my job?”

“For doing your job  _ well.” _

Joe huffs out a breath. Kersh’s fingers are so—you know. Strong. Rubbing tension out of Joe’s arms—and the closeness of his body feels nice. Not because it’s Kersh in particular, but because Kersh is a man, and a friend, and  _ here. _ It’s getting hard to think. Still, Joe manages to spit out, “What are you doing?  _ Training _ me into not sucking?”

“Would that work?” Then Kersh’s hands find Joe’s chest, find his nipples through his t-shirt and that’s  _ it,  _ that’s gotta be what Kersh was planning from the start, to just, to give pressure there, to  _ rub _ , friction and deep touch, and Joe’s knees wobble. 

“I guess I—I guess it’s worth a shot…” Joe mumbles.

His nipples—his  _ chest,  _ when was the last time somebody touched him there…? Joe blindly allows Kersh to undress him—it’s a haze. It’s like— _ I still feel like I hate myself but if you think I’m worth the trouble then I’m not going to complain.  _ And then Kersh’s mouth on his chest, unforgiving and rough and  _ God. God,  _ Joe just wants to be consumed by this.

Sex these days is so infrequent and awkward. Joe knows theoretically he could go ask Kersh for sex if he really needed it, but ever since the season started Joe hasn’t  _ dared _ , he feels like he doesn’t  _ deserve it _ , he feels like everything’s going to shit and… Sex used to be a way for Joe to  _ make up for _ everything he fucked up on the field, or otherwise make up for being a piece of shit off the field. But here in LA, it’s like a favor Kersh is giving him. Because  _ he’s  _ the one who needs it, not Kersh.

_ He’s  _ the one with a problem about sex and intimacy and feeling rejected and— 

Kersh grabs Joe’s dick and is completely un-gentle about tugging on it and Joe  _ keens,  _ his vision flickers with color and darkness and he stares un-seeing at the white of the ceiling.

He’s gotta find other people on this team who are willing to fuck him, because even in this moment with Kershaw  _ rewarding him,  _ he feels so so  _ so _ terribly guilty. There have to be ten million other things Kersh would rather be doing right now, but he’s doing  _ this,  _ for Joe’s sake. Kersh is still clothed and Joe is completely undressed.

It feels so awesome and awful and Kersh  _ bites  _ him, bites his nipple, Joe could  _ die. Right here. _

“Will you fuck me?” 

“Not right now,” Kersh whispers against the wet spot of saliva on Joe’s chest, like he’s not at all surprised that Joe asked.

_ “Please.” _

“Joe,” Kersh says, and it sounds like a warning, but it also sounds plaintive, as one of those big hands settles around Joe’s naked hip almost tenderly. 

“O—okay.” Joe gets out. Fine. No sex. He’ll take this for what Kersh is willing to give him—this tension, this physical intimacy, transient and immeasurably sad but also an affirmation of the affection that Joe’s desperate for.

Kersh sinks down on the spinny chair and pulls Joe closer, into his lap, bare skin of Joe’s thighs against the thick, stiff fabric of Kersh’s jeans, Joe’s spine forced into an arch by the warmth of Kersh’s palm—“You did good,” Kersh whispers again, smiling, bumping his forehead against Joe’s shoulder, “and you’ll be fine next time, too. I loved seeing you look like that out there. You looked like you  _ felt  _ it.”

“I—I don’t know what it was,” the words spill from Joe, “I don’t know—it was okay—I painted the—can you—can you touch me, touch me more, please, touch me—”

“I’ve got you—here, here, is this what you like? This is what you like, isn’t it—” 

Joe slumps forward, collapses against Kersh’s body, fingers gripping at the unyeilding and impossible barrier of Kersh’s linen shirt. Walled off from Kersh’s body, so he can’t take this contact for himself but instead he has to submit to whatever Kersh will give him, spit-slicked fingers at his entrance, groping at his balls…

Joe comes, all over Kersh’s fingers. Nothing gets on Kersh’s clothes and that’s the saddest part of all. Like Joe’s body, like every part of it can be Separate and Isolated down to the last slick drop of come.

Kersh smiles while Joe catches his breath, and he brushes his knuckles against Joe’s cheek. Joe feels cheated, like the orgasm was half-baked, like the euphoria didn’t reach his brain. He should feel relieved, the temporary rush of dopamine… but now he’s looking up into Kersh’s face and he can barely force a weary smile.

“You’ve had a tough time,” Kersh murmurs sheepishly, his gray eyes flickering back and forth over Joe’s face. “I just wanted today to be a good day for you. But— _ hah,  _ man, it’s not working, is it?”

Joe ducks his eyes, looks down at himself, the pinkish tint to his skin after orgasm. 

“What can I do?” Kersh asks, gently, stilll cupping Joe’s cheek and stroking with his thumb, “What can I do to make it better?”

_ You could fuck me,  _ suggests Joe’s brain bitterly, but he doesn’t mean it, and he doesn’t say it. Instead he gathers what little dignity he has left, and he pulls himself off of Kersh’s lap to stand up, naked on the locker room floor. “Look,” Joe says, “in the grand scheme of things, it was a pretty good day. I got three outs, and I got off. As much as I appreciate… everything you’ve done for me, there’s… there’s nothing here you can fix. You should probably just… go home.”

Joe pulls his street clothes back on—socks first, because his jeans are too tight to pull them up underneath. Kersh doesn’t say anything. Joe unplugs his phone and shoves the charger in his day bag.

Kersh sighs, deeply, and leans back in his chair. “I know you think I don’t get it,” he says. 

Joe shifts his jaw but doesn’t say anything.

“And the sex thing, yeah. You’re a piece of work, Joe, I’ll admit that. I’ve got no idea what to do with you there.”

Joe gives a half-laugh and tries not to let those words hurt. “Fair enough.”

Kersh nods, and then he kind of crosses his arms, and he looks at Joe the way he does when they’re in the dugout, when Joe’s made a mess of the game and Kersh is just trying to figure him out. “The  _ sadness _ , on the other hand…” Kersh says, “... _ that _ , I get.”

“Hmm.” Joe looks at the floor.

“I’ve been through it. I’ve known guys who went through it—”

“Yeah, man,” Joe interjects, prickly, “thanks, Sherlock, you figured it out! I’m clinically depressed!” He zips his bag closed. “That’s not  _ news.  _ I’ve been medicated since I was like twelve.” 

“Alright,” says Kersh, evenly. “But it’s one thing to be depressed when you’re surrounded by your closest friends every hour of every day. It’s another thing entirely to be around these guys you barely know, in a season that isn’t going how you wanted it to.”

Kersh sounds so sure of himself. It makes Joe’s eyes water, to hear Kersh say these things out loud. The self-pity crawls up his throat—he just feels so  _ sad,  _ all the time, just this fog of sadness that he doesn’t even  _ want  _ to be feeling, he’s trying to hide it and get rid of it. He’s trying. It must look so pathetic, from the outside. 

Joe clears his throat. “It’s… it’s my fucking job, okay. I’m paid a lot of money to be here and it’s fine. I’ll get over myself.”

“Will you try seeing someone?” Kersh asks.

Joe shrugs, helplessly, and his voice turns wooden. “I’m  _ already _ seeing someone, Kersh. I’m seeing my psychiatrist, I’m on my meds… I’m doing everything I’m supposed to be doing. Things could be so much worse.”

“If it was going to make you this upset,” Kersh asks, suddenly, “why didn’t you take what Boston offered you?”

The laugh bubbles out of Joe before he can even figure out why the question makes him want to laugh. “Don’t,” he says, “don’t ask me that. You think I wouldn’t be a wreck in Boston right now? Getting paid less and worried about getting DFA’d?”

“I’m sorry,” Kersh says. “I shouldn’t have asked you that. I know it’s more complicated than just… just that decision.”

“Do you wish I’d stayed in Boston?” Joe asks, half joking but half… not joking. “Do you wish you didn’t have to deal with me?”

Kersh stands up. He’s a tactile guy; at least, with Joe he is. His hand finds Joe’s shoulder and then he ducks down to make eye contact despite Joe’s reluctance. “I like you, man. I think you’re sweet. You’re a little sensitive but that’s not a bad thing. I’m proud to be your teammate, and I hate that being here is making you feel so much hurt.” Kersh is earnest, good-Christian-boy earnest. Despite his pitching numbers, Kersh is no rockstar the way the starters in Boston were sometimes. Kersh is just… someone who seeks every opportunity to be a good man.

And Joe wouldn’t  _ believe _ him, Joe would feel like he was taking advantage of Kersh because Kersh doesn’t really like him or want to be around him—except that Kersh is still touching him. Caressing Joe’s face. 

If nothing else, Kersh clearly  _ likes _ being relied upon. So, fuck it. Fuck it. At least that’s something Joe’s good for.

“You say you wanna reward me?” Joe tugs his backpack over his shoulder and ducks his eyes. He winces as he tries to get the words out. “Can we… hang out?”

“You mean, to have sex?” Kersh asks cautiously.

“No, no, just. It’d be nice to not have to go home to an empty apartment. I know it’s late, but. You could sleep over, or something.”

Kersh sighs, and his caress is infinitely gentle. “Tomorrow’s getaway day, so I’ve gotta go home. But listen. Sit with me on the plane, and then come to my hotel room. I’ll take care of you.” He searches Joe’s eyes. “I will,” he says, like he’s worried Joe doesn’t believe him.

“Okay.” Joe forces on a smile, but it… it comes easier than usual. He’s alright. He’s got something to look forward to and… and he trusts Kersh. He trusts that when Kersh makes a plan like that, he means it.

They hug. It feels good—it always feels good. And the tension is leaving. A win and an hour spent with Clayton Kershaw isn’t going to fix everything, and Joe’s got to take things day by day… but this wasn’t a bad day. It wasn’t. And tomorrow will be better.

They leave the clubhouse together, and it’s not until they’re in the parking garage that Kersh finally, reluctantly, removes his hand from Joe’s shoulder.

**Author's Note:**

> please comment if you liked it :)


End file.
